Savior
by yayme2012
Summary: He saw it all. He may like you to believe that he saw nothing, that he sat in that steaming, hellish trunk and didn’t look out- didn’t remember- but he saw it all. Based off 1x06 Return to Sender. 1000-word drabble.


_**Vital Info: Based off Dexter ep 1x06: Return to Sender. The boy referred to in the story is the witness (Oscar?) found in the trunk of the car. Spoilers only for 1x06 episode.**_

_**A/N: Back with another Dexter story. Whee. This one was born from pure speculation- what if the boy really did see what happened? What if he felt sympathy for Dexter? And here we are. The good people of Miami Metro PD and Dexter through the eyes of a seven-year-old. Enjoy.**_

_**Word count: 1000**_

_**Disclaimer: If I owned Dexter, Deb would've been killed off (or at least been less annoying). But I didn't. And she wasn't.**_

_**Savior**_

He saw it all.

He may like you to believe that he saw nothing, that he sat in that steaming, hellish trunk and didn't look out- didn't remember- but he saw it all. He saw the man, wreathed in dark clothes as an avenging angel, swooping in with that bad woman. He saw the man leave, and another return, and much more besides. But the important thing was that he saw the man in dark clothes.

They soon took him away, and the next hours- or perhaps days- were blurs. Few moments stood out: a bag of clothes handed to him, a shelter with other boys his age, a nice man who told him he could find his uncle.

There was a nice lady as well. And a whole building full of nice people in uniforms. They called and asked if he could come in and answer some questions. Why not?

He saw the man again, when he entered the building with the nice lady. The man, now in lighter clothes, cast his eyes down, and the boy did the same. He didn't want the man to feel bad.

They took him to a backroom where the lady told him to describe the man he saw. The first man. Another man sat, pencil poised on paper. He glanced at him for a second, then put his eyes back to his paper. There was a pause for a moment until he began to speak.

He described the man's brooding eyes and watched in silent horror as the eyes appeared like magic on the paper as the artist's pen flew across it. He should have stopped, he realizes that even now.

He thought of some way to stop this, some way to tell them he was wrong- that perhaps he didn't see anything. It was a futile hope, for he's already told them he saw a man. He racked his brain again for an answer.

His stomach rumbled, saving him the trouble. The nice lady made a hasty exit and returned with a pastry. He gobbled it down eagerly as she joked with him.

Soon later, he fell asleep. A dreamless sleep- a vague part of his conscious was still awake, taking in the sights and sounds as the nice lady stroked his hair. He muttered sleepily and rolled over.

The door clicked open softly and the man- the avenging angel- stepped in, reaching hesitantly for the pad, looking for his guilt on the paper.

The nice lady tried to stand up. She lifted his head slowly to put it on top of a jacket. The boy's eyes almost jerked open, but he stopped himself at the last minute, giving only time for a small peek.

If he had any doubt before, it was gone now. He was most definitely the dark-clothed savior. The boy feels anxious.

The two make small talk, mostly about the boy. And then the man uncovers the pad anxiously.

Of course, the man didn't find his own face- just the watchful eyes. He almost jumped. The boy does feel sorry about it.

When he woke up, the people again surrounded him and asked him what the man looked like, what clothes he was wearing, and every other question under the sun.

So there he sat.

And there he sits now.

He does not want to betray the man. He's done a good thing for the boy. Without him, he would probably still be sitting inside the hot car trunk. Perhaps even dead.

If he tells the nice people what the man had done, it wouldn't be a proper thank-you.

And he doesn't see what's so bad about what the man did. They tell him that she- that lady- was a bad, bad person.

In a burst of childish logic, he realizes a simple truth:

_She deserved it._

Why should his savior suffer for it?

He's relatively sure that the man has done nothing but good things, aside from that small lapse in judgment. And really, what harm has he done?

He has made his decision: he will help the man. But… how?

_Lie_, a voice down inside tells him. _Lie and make it all better. _He scolds this voice- for one, it goes against everything he believes in- and pushes it down, but it keeps coming back. Lying, actually, does not sound like a bad idea at the moment. It sounds like a pretty good one, in fact.

Now he knows what to do. He still has more questions: not-so-trivial ones such as: _Who will get blamed?_

Life can be so difficult.

He thinks of people far, far away from this strange country he's in. People that he could describe from memory that would never come here and be seen.

Many, many people run through his mind, but one particular face pops up.

The nice lady sighs and asks him again if he remembers. He nods and she smiles, elated. A part of him feels bad for lying- it is making the lady so very happy- to her, but another part says he's telling the truth. He can be saved by more than one person.

So now he closes his eyes and dreams of home. Of the dark church with its musky odor, the faded mural of Jesus on the wall. Of the old men murmuring their prayers to a long-gone God and his knees protesting on the paneled wood floor. Of his fingers playing with the silver cross around his neck, which hangs still now. And most of all, of Jesus painted in bright blue robes with a smiling, reassuring face on the peeling wall near the front.

He opens his eyes now and opens his mouth as well. He begins to lie, confusing faces of a holy Savior and a less-than-holy savior. He tells of the face in his dreams and it surfaces on the paper slowly. And behind his heavy lids, Jesus smiles at him and tells him it's the right thing to do.


End file.
